‘No, no! You won’t get sick!’ Gurdweill protested. ‘You’ll get better soon and go home. I’ll talk to the director.’

‘With the direc —’ Franzi broke off in the middle of the word and started from her chair. The door opened, and the nurse came in to say that the visiting hour was over.

Gurdweill rose to his feet, collected the chocolate and the remains of the oranges, and gave them to Franzi, who said fussily to the nurse: ‘Just a minute, Sister Charlotte, there’s something I still have to say to him.’

And to Gurdweill, in an urgent whisper: ‘Go to him now! You know who … Plead with him! Tell him I have a baby at home and I have to take care of him … For the baby’s sake … Go right now! You’ll find him there now.’

She accompanied him to the end of the corridor and signalled to him with her head and her free hand to go directly to Dr von Eichendorf. Before the door closed he caught one last glimpse of Franzi Mitteldorfer’s sharp, hollow face; her straying, haunted eyes; her wild, wispy hair. He noticed, too, that the stocking on her right foot had slipped down again and fallen over her slipper. His heart broke to leave her thus, in such inhuman suffering. But the door shut and everything was over. The nurse accompanied him down the stairs and locked the front door behind him.

Outside, he stood still for a moment, next to the door, to take a breath of fresh air. He felt as if a long time, several days perhaps, had passed since he had entered that door. His limbs ached with weariness and his face was as pale as if he had just recovered from a serious illness. Franzi’s doleful refrain rang in his ears: ‘Ten weeks, ten weeks!’ And: ‘You mustn’t go outside without your clothes on!’ Other disjointed phrases, too, filled his head, and he did not even feel the thin, slanting rain, which had begun to spatter against his face. For a moment he wondered whether he should really go to see the director. But he immediately rejected the absurd idea, and began rummaging in his pockets for a cigarette. All he found was a little stub, which he looked at absent-mindedly before lighting it and moving off.

He had not gone far when he heard a terrible shriek — the same shriek as before, but closer this time. He stood still, petrified. The shriek died down abruptly, as if interrupted in the middle. The only sound to be heard was the faint rustle of the fallen leaves at the sides of the deserted avenue, which Gurdweill took in at the same time as he became aware of the rain. With a feeling compounded of horror and avid expectation, he waited for the shriek to come again. But it was not repeated, and he started walking slowly towards the exit.